


No Man, No Nation, No God

by lustig



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Avatar & Benders Setting, Alternate Universe - Casablanca Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Trojan War, Alternate Universe - Western, Ficlet Collection, M/M, One Shot Collection, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-10-31 02:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17840735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: A collection of various little ficlets, originally posted on Tumblr.Part 1 - Rising Sun (Trevilieu Trojan War AU)Part 2 + 3 - A Good Cat doesn't snack (Stories written to pictures of Kardinalka's Art)Part 4 - Blood and Dust (Trevilieu Western AU)Part 5 - For you are wth me (Trevilieu Shepherd/Medieval Knight AU)Part 6 - Control (Magician/Bender AU)Part 7 - In the Dark (Casablanca AU)More stories might be added over time. Beta'ed either by the wonderful donkey2323 or the fantastic liadt.





	1. Rising Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun rises, and the Trojan War is over. Richelieu had always known they would be on the losing side. But no one had listened to him. And he had still lost more than he would ever be able to bear.
> 
> or:  
> The Trojan War AU no one has asked for.
> 
> Visit [here-goes-all-the-cotton-candy](https://here-comes-all-the-cotton-candy.tumblr.com/post/170218155548/why-couldnt-you-just-listen-to-me-he-breathed) on tumblr for some gorgeous fanart!

He turned away from the serene statue of Athena when he heard the heavy footfall behind him. His face was drenched in tears, his hands white and clasped tightly, except for the small, crescent-shaped red spots where his nails had broken the seer’s skin.

 

“Why didn’t you listen?” he demanded, “I _told_ you Troy would burn! I _told_ you the city would be slaughtered time and time again! Even Concini tried to tell you the horse was a fraud, a diversion! And when he was killed in front of you by giant snakes, _which I also prophesied,_ what did you do? You pulled the Horse into the city and celebrated the Greeks that had run away and left you a present!

 

“Who’d even be stupid enough not to see through this? If anyone of your adrenaline-driven **_men_** would stop for just one second to take the time to _think_ , or at least _listen_ to words of wisdom –

 

“But _no_ , you’re too good for that, you’re always right, you don’t need to listen, of course the Greeks would suddenly flee after ten years of continuous siege. Of _course_ they would!”

 

His eyes, pale grey, were feverish, full of anger and sadness and despair. They found the stormy blue eyes of his visitor, Jean de Treville, leader of the troops of Mysia and son of its resident king.

 

 

 

He looked like one of the statues of Ares, a mighty warrior exhausted from hour-long battles but still ready to fight for his beliefs, his sword and armour drenched in blood that wasn’t his. The sun rose behind him, shining through the open gates of the temple and painting it in ethereal light.

 

“I am here to take you away, to safety”, the hero stated. Richelieu only sighed tiredly.

 

“It doesn’t matter now. You’ll be dead within the hour and I will be taken into slavery.” He sounded completely disinterested in his own future, like he had already died inside. Like he had already been taken.

 

 

 

In a matter of seconds the mighty warrior had reached him, his hand around the priest’s neck, pressing him against the statue’s pedestal.

 

“ ** _I refuse to believe you!_** ” he shouted, disoriented and tired instead of powerful and confident now Richelieu could see him, up close.

 

“King Henri promised my father to give me your hand in exchange for our army. I am responsible for your safety.” He let go of the seer’s throat, without stepping away.

 

“You physically kept me from damaging the Greek horse”, Richelieu hissed, pained, “You already broke that vow of protection. There is no need for you to carry on pretending you care.”

 

The priest turned away, back to the statue of the goddess of wisdom and warfare. “Please, leave me alone.”

 

 

 

He was about to sink back to his knees when the warrior’s hand – the left one, the one without the sword – closed around Armand’s arm, turning him back to his suitor again.

 

“You are not safe here. If they find you –“

 

“They will find me. And I already know what they will do to me.” The priest’s gaze was far away, looking past Treville into the rising sun.

 

“Henri”, he whispered weakly, “was wrong to promise you my hand. I am high priest of Apollo. I swore a vow of chastity, like all my fellow servants of the god did. I didn’t break it for him and he cursed me for it, so why should I break it for you? Do you stand higher than a god? Than Apollo?”

 

The determination in Treville’s eyes changed to desperation, sadness.

 

“I asked my father to demand your hand in exchange for the Mysian fighters. I wanted him to do it.” The priests gaze softened, his eyes clearer, sadder.

 

“Then I’m sorry for what’s about to happen.” He pressed his pale, frail hands against the warriors face and kissed him, chastely, sweetly.

 

 

As they separated, Treville’s eyes confused, he whispered a final “Farewell, Jean”, and watched as the young hero’s knees gave way below him, a long, sharp arrow in his back. It was only too fitting that the only one coming for Richelieu would be stopped by the favourite weapon of his god.

 

“Why couldn’t you just listen to me?” he breathed unhappily, staring into the breaking eyes of the warrior. “I think I might’ve even been able to like you.”

 

The seer turned to the two figures in the doorway. The sun at their backs hid their features in the shadows but Armand knew nonetheless who they were.

 

 

 

Grimauld, the king-slayer and child-butcher, lowered his bow while Rochefort, whom they called _The Lesser,_ entered the temple, his steps slow, deliberate. Like a dancer. Or a snake.

 

“This one belongs to me”, the blonde said, loud enough for the priest to hear him. “Vargas won’t get him just like this. He should have come and take him himself if he was so keen on owning the seer. Untouched.” He strutted around Richelieu, observing him like a war trophy.

 

“To lay hands on a priest in a temple is forbidden”, the seer said, nearly soundlessly. Rochefort started to laugh.

 

“Athena should better look away then, huh?” And he stepped over Treville’s corpse, closing the distance between his prey and himself.


	2. A Good Cat doesn’t snack – Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cardinal makes a decision the Captain highly disapproves of - and Treville gets his fears confirmed sooner than he would have liked.

“Are you _insane_?” The captain lowered his voice to a harsh whisper while the two men were strolling away from court, their steps hammering onto the marble in complete synch.

 

“Why are you insinuating something you know not to be true?” The Cardinal’s voice was far too calm, too controlled.

 

He sped up his steps in the obvious hope to be left alone but Treville sped up alongside him and continued, enraged. “People are _dying_ on the streets of hunger and disease. The war is taking everything from them. They are only one step away from open rebellion and you _fucking_ want to _ride_ to mass?! I can’t allow it, it’s just plain stupid; you can’t -”

 

“I can and I will, Captain. If you don’t agree with my decision then I will simply remove you from that day’s duty. It has already been decided, there is nothing you can do.”

 

Treville whirled around, grabbed the stubborn priest with his fine silken robe and slammed him against the nearest wall. Cold fuming anger raged in both men’s eyes.

 

 

“You’re stepping beyond your authority, captain.”

 

“I don’t care. You will not ride to mass.”

 

He couldn’t. The people saw him as responsible for their current misery; they would probably kill him on sight.

 

Some of his fears must have bled through because Richelieu’s gaze softened.

“I am grateful for your concern, Jean. But the people need to see me and I will not step down on this matter.”

 

Treville let go of his robes, stepping back, agitated and upset.

 

“As you wish, Your Eminence.” His eyes turned cold like ice and he left the First Minister standing alone in the twilight of the hallway. They didn’t talk to each other after that.

 

 

 

\----

 

 

 

The quiet was thick, pressing down on the procession, full of anger and hatred and the despair of the citizens of Paris. No excited chatter disturbed the deathly silence, no children’s laughter.

 

It was disconcerting and unsettling. Even the horses sensed the heavy atmosphere, ears nervously pricking, dancing around whenever their rider didn’t give them their full attention. And amidst them all, between the Musketeer delegation and his Red Guard, was His Eminence, the Cardinal Richelieu. Wrapped in his best ceremonial robes he sat there on the back of a great white stallion, making his slow way over to the cathedral. Every pair of eyes followed the impressive figure on horseback, full of anger and discontentment.

 

The procession moved onwards, undisturbed, while the dangerous quiet thickened around them.

 

The spell broke as Richelieu turned his eyes away from the crowd to calm down his horse. A woman could be heard, clear in the deafening silence around them: “Murderer!” she shouted. “Lecher!”

 

Other voices soon joined her, growing to an angry choir.

 

“He kills our sons!”

 

“He kills our husbands!”

 

“Everything we own we have to give to him!”

 

“Will you never have enough? Do you want to bleed us dry?”

 

The crowd started to advance as a huge, living entity, pressing in on the guards from all sides. The first horses broke, whinnying loud and panicked.

 

Shouts for vengeance and revenge started to mix into the accusations, fuelling the aggressive crowd further.

 

“It’s his fault! It’s all the Cardinal’s fault! Without him everything would be fine!”

 

 

 

Treville never knew who threw the first stone. Or the second. But all this hatred in the air turned quickly into a palpable killing intent against the man in their midst. He rode forward to get closer to Richelieu, who by now was  fighting against his stallion to keep him calm.

 

The first stones missed the tall figure, some only by inches. But one  hit the already agitated horse and the Cardinal lost control of his mount. He was only barely able to keep himself in the saddle when another projectile caught him square in the chest, closely followed by one to the side of his head.

 

Richelieu’s eyes were filled with quiet, confused wonder while he slowly slid off his horse, unable to hold onto the reigns any longer. His body hit the ground at the same time Treville reached him, jumping off his frightened but obedient mare without a moment’s hesitation.

 

“Protect the First Minister at all costs!” he shouted at top of his voice, gladly realising that both regiments instantly tried to form a ring around the fallen leader of France. Blood was already leaking out of the horrible gash on his temple when the captain gathered the frail figure in his strong arms, carrying him over to his still waiting horse.

 

“Whatever happens, your Eminence, do not close your eyes under any circumstance, do you understand me?” He could see Richelieu trying and failing to focus his gaze on Treville. The mare was trained well enough not to dart away when she smelt the metallic odour of blood but waited patiently for her captain to mount her again, pressing the only half-conscious figure of the Cardinal against his chest.

 

A soft tremble started through the frail man, not visible to any bystander but palpable by Treville. He held him closer, throwing a worrying glance at the First Minister. The trickling blood had started to soak into the heavy velvet of his ceremonial robes, painting the once white cloth the colour of his silk.

 

 

 

The guards were able to hold the enraged crowd back for the moment, most of them now dismounted, forming a wall of swords, pistols and leather between the people and the badly injured Cardinal. Every time Treville saw him closing his eyes for more than a moment, he shook the unresponsive body in his arms, careful at first as to not hurt him further but with rising panic when he started to refuse the gentle administrations.

 

“We need to get him to a physician!” he shouted. One of the Musketeers - Porthos - turned around and pointed in a direction.

 

“There’s one maybe a quarter mile down there. But I don’t think his Eminence would be safe at a town’s physician. You need to get him back to the palace, Captain!”

 

The warrior took out his sword, looking upset, and ordered a few of the better fighters to follow him. They were making a breach for Treville and Richelieu to escape, one tiny chance to save the First Minister of France. He shortened the reigns of his mare and made himself and his horse ready to tear through the gap. The Cardinal’s body had melted against him completely, his gaze far away but his eyes still opened.

“Don’t dare to die, you bastard”, he hissed. 

 

An answering twitch of Richelieu’s lips was everything he needed. As soon as the mare got free reign she started to run like the wind, through the only way out there was. Porthos had done an amazing job on getting them free passage and the hooves’ hammering on the streets was a melody to Treville’s rising hope.

 

“You need to hold on just a little longer, Armand.” A whimper answered him, too weak. There was so much blood.

 

 

 

They rode on, through the empty streets of Paris. Obviously every citizen had left their homes to watch the procession. That was the only advantage of the current situation. No one was there to stop the captain and his precious cargo.

 

 

 

The Louvre finally came in sight when the first convulsion nearly caused Treville to lose his grip on Richelieu. There was only a little spark left in the eyes of the Cardinal, tired and hopeless and so far away.

 

“Armand.” The captain’s hand burrowed in the silvery curls, turning the head carefully in his direction.

 

“Armand, listen to me. You are not allowed to die now. This is neither the time nor the place nor the way it should be. Get yourself together, now, and look at me.”

 

Something in the other man’s eyes changed and Treville continued.

 

“Focus on my voice. There is still much to do. You can’t leave France behind like that. You can’t do that to Louis, you are not allowed to do that. I forbid it. If you die now I will personally come looking for you in Heaven or Hell to drag you back. Do you really want to leave France in the hands of some untrained idiot? Or in mine?”

 

Agony burned in Richelieu’s eyes, fiery and pure. Treville was never more glad to see the pain in there.

 

 

 

Louis was already standing on the stairs of the main entrance, surrounded by a handful of guards. He threw one look at the arriving pair and ordered for his personal physician to come at once. One of the Musketeers, whose horse had bolted as one of the first, stood next to the guards, clenching his obviously broken arm, scratches and a fast forming bruise on his face. When he saw the captain coming up, the still breathing Cardinal in his arms, he smiled.


	3. A Good Cat doesn’t snack – Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wounds from the attacks during the mass are healing nicely, but Richelieu still strains himself beyond what he can actually bear, and Treville has to pick up the pieces once again.

 

Richelieu joined court again much earlier than the doctors – and Treville, for that matter – would have liked.

 

The nearly fatal head wound had healed surprisingly well and incredibly fast, but his ribcage, partially broken by the second successful hit, refused to do the same. If one didn’t know the Cardinal well enough, wasn’t observant enough or didn’t care enough to look for the small differences in his Eminence’s behaviour they would never guess anything was wrong.

 

But the king knew.

 

Treville knew.

 

The Queen did, too, or at least that’s what the captain suspected. But the relationship between the Spanish lady and the First Minister was too strained to let this make any difference to her.

 

But all these little moments where Richelieu would stop for a second, nearly gasping for a breath that hurt to be taken. The shadow flicking over his face, only recognisable if you were waiting for the stubborn Cardinal to show exactly those signs (as Treville did). The nearly unrecognisable hunch when the pain became unbearable and, if one listened closely, a soft wheezing mixed itself into the breathing.

 

All these small, seemingly unimportant differences telling the world that their leader was not well yet. Not well at all. Especially not well enough to fight heated discussions, some of them lasting hours and hours with his usual vigour.

 

It didn’t stop Richelieu, though.

 

As soon as the first doctor had proclaimed that he’d probably survive his injuries he had nearly jumped out of his sickbed and back to court.

 

The king was not amused.

 

Treville was not happy.

 

“Your _recklessness_ , Your Eminence,” he hissed after picking him up in some hallway or another, finding him there coughing and gasping for air one evening after the king had finally closed the discussions, “will be your death, some day.”

 

“Not as long as I know you are at my side,” he had smiled in answer, his voice rasping and hoarse with the effort to produce this small sentence.

 

Treville didn’t have the energy to argue with him after that, silently accompanying the Cardinal to his Palais, glaring at him the whole time.

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

For a few days everything seemed to be fine. The colour returned to Richelieu’s cheeks and his breathing seemed to calm down. Louis looked immensely pleased that his First Minister’s health had improved so well after those horrible riots a few weeks ago.

Treville was still unable to trust this new peace, though. It wouldn’t be a first for his Eminence to fool them all with a pretty charade until he suddenly fainted in his chambers because of exhaustion or lack of sleep and proper nourishing.

 

They were discussing the current situation of the war, the planned siege of a Spanish castle close to their borders that had resisted their efforts to take so far.

 

Treville was mostly there to give them the soldier’s opinion on their plans, providing them with the important data and numbers. He stood closely behind Louis, only interrupting once in a while.

 

Most of the time, his eyes only tried to stay away from Richelieu, in the hope of not being caught staring.

 

The Cardinal was completely in his element, a raging storm of sweet and whispered words, dangerous and silent threats, genius ideas and the always hissing red silk. His hands cut the air of the room with wide, sweeping gestures.

 

It was in the middle of an impressive and most likely well-prepared speech that the Captain finally saw it.

 

Blanching, he stepped forward, closing the small gap between himself and the king and growled in Louis ear: “Break up the Court, _now_!”

 

The king gave him a confused frown, having been listening intently to his First Minister, as all the other attendees had.

 

“Look at him,” Treville pleaded, white as a sheet by now. “ _Look_ at him!”

 

Louis threw a glance in Richelieu’s direction and focused on him with a sudden, intense force. He _saw_ it, like the Musketeer had, finally.

 

The Cardinal was always wearing red. It was the reason the Captain told himself that he hadn’t realised earlier what exactly was wrong with the older man.

 

The red was hiding it.

 

His deep red lips, the warm, _healthy_ colour of his cheeks, the feverishly glowing eyes.

Richelieu’s skin had no healthy colour. He was pale when he was fine. He looked like a ghost on his best days, white and regal. Not with the slight flush Treville had seen creeping up those last days.

 

The magnificent figure was dancing around the room in a well-trained waltz, yet his steps were a bit smaller than usual and he was _swaying_ , just a little, from side to side.

Louis stood up. As did everyone around the table, scrambling and surprised, except the already standing pair of The Cardinal and the Captain.

 

“I have had enough talk of war for a day. Go now.”

 

Richelieu, stopping with a flabbergasted expression, _swaying more strongly_ , tried to get the kings attention back: “Your Majesty –“

 

“Away now!” Louis exclaimed, turning around dramatically, letting his coat flap behind him in a Cardinal-like manner. It wasn’t only politics he had learned from the great man.

 

The other courtiers and planners scrambled away, happy to escape the Red Snake a long time before they had expected to be allowed to do so.

 

“Your Majesty, you can’t just –” Richelieu took a step in the direction of the two last remaining men in the room. His knees gave way below him, no longer supporting the Cardinal’s weight. He yelped, surprised and in pain he didn’t allow himself to feel.

 

Maybe he wasn’t even consciously aware of it.

 

Treville was at his side not even a second after, having anticipated something similar happening.

 

He fell down on his knees, catching the older man before he could hit the floor with the whole length of his body, hugging him tightly. Richelieu dug his hands in the sturdy leather the Captain was wearing, huddling against his chest.

 

He was burning up, the heat palpable even through both their clothing and trembling ever-so-slightly.

 

In the soft movement of his head Treville could guess he was trying to hide his face in the crook of his the Captains neck but there was no strength left in him and so he just tiredly closed his eyes, resting his chin on the younger man’s collarbone.

 

“My head is spinning. Everything is spinning,” he complained pathetically.

 

 

Both of them had forgotten about the still-present king who was watching his two favourite men with a fond expression. He tip-toed out of the room, knowing with absolute certainty that his captain would take good care of his First Minister.

 

 

 

“C’mon, I’ll take you back to your chambers. You need rest.” Treville moved only a fraction, trying to get away and help the Cardinal up when the older man made a distressed noise, digging his hands deeper into the captain’s back.

 

“I’m not going anywhere, Armand”, he grumbled half-exasperated and half-amused. “But I can’t get you back if you refuse to let me help you.” Richelieu finally relaxed his hands enough to allow Treville a little movement.

 

The Musketeer shifted just enough to pick the lightweight up, one arm stabilising his back and bedding the soft-haired head in the crook of his neck, the other curling around the legs and most of the silk, just above the point where the Cardinals knees should be.

As soon as he stood up, supressing a grown because he wasn’t the youngest anymore and absolutely not made to carry full-grown men around in bridal style, Richelieu nuzzled his face against his throat, murmuring a sleepy, more-or-less inaudible “You smell good, Jean. Very manly.”

 

Treville _didn’t_ blush, thank you very much.

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

As a guardsman the captain knew the least-used ways around the Louvres. He also knew that he absolutely could not be seen by anyone carrying around the only half-conscious and most likely fever-driven madman in red. There was a small yet comfy chamber nearby where he had already spent some nights during times of crisis to be closer to the king.

 

That was his current aim.

 

He hoped that he could put the Cardinal to rest there soon. His feverish babbling (which had turned to excessive praise of his person about the second he had left the meeting room) that Richelieu would probably be unable to remember when he’d wake up again, able to think like a normal, coherent being. Or at least able to think again. Because there was nothing normal or coherent about the Cardinal, and even less in the way he was thinking.

 

Thankfully the room was unlocked and, ordering Armand to “shut up for a moment and put your hands around my neck and _hold tight,_ you hear me?” he was able to use his left hand to actually open the door.

 

As soon as it fell close behind him again, an exhausted yet glad sight escaped Treville.

He stalked over to the cot, smelling faintly of dust and leather, and somehow wrangled away the arms of his Eminence around his neck to lay him down on the cover.

 

When he took the two steps needed to cross the room to lock the door, Armand already whimpered “No, Jean. Don’t leave me, _please_.” He reached for the captain, his eyes wide and full of fear.

 

Treville sighed again and spontaneously took off his leather garment. If he had to spend more time here in the company of the sick Minister he could at least make himself a little more comfortable.

 

He sank on the cot next to Richelieu who – his eyes glazed and still far too flushed – had sat up while the Captain had disrobed. He scrambled back, closer to Treville and onto the captain’s lap, making himself comfortable. The man in red pressed his whole body against the blue-eyed musketeer, far too hot and alarmingly similar to one of his many cats.

 

The younger man tolerated it without any further comment, only holding Armand close enough that he wouldn’t slide off or fall down.

 

“I’m ending in your arms far too often these days, my dear Jean”, he murmured, staring at the Captain with unadulterated adoration.

 

“You’re far too reckless these days, Armand. I’m turning grey because of you.”

 

“How fitting,” the older man mumbled, sounding dead tired. “But you’re still goin’ to protect me, aren’t you?”

 

His head found its way again to Treville’s collarbone, his breath too hot on the bare skin of the captain’s neck.

 

“I swear I will not let anyone hurt you again”, he rumbled, burrowing his nose in the silver-grey mane of the First Minister. It could be the only chance for him to get this close to the mastermind. He wouldn’t let anything like that happen if he weren’t knocked out like this. Treville was sure about that.

 

“But you have to promise me something in return, Armand.”

 

“Anythin’” He was already halfway gone, snugly wound around the younger man.

 

“You have to go and let yourself be cured completely. Or there will be an enemy even I’ll be unable to fight for you. There are hot springs who are apparently very effective against these kinds of sicknesses in Chaudes-Aigues.”

 

“You comin’ with me?”

 

“Always, Your Eminence. Always.”


	4. Blood and Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse at the Trevilieu Western AU no one asked for.

They brought him just as the sun was disappearing behind the hills, the last rays catching in silvery hair, bathing it in a golden glow.

 

Only the dried blood covering parts of his face - the parts not dipped in the light of the dying sun - and his tied hands were indications that the rider hadn’t come of his own free will.

 

He was a tall, intelligent looking man, with sharp features and piercing eyes. A once black trench coat - now more grey for the dust that had gathered itself on their journey - shielded him from the merciless winds of the west, hiding the blood red shirt he wore below.

 

He refused to look down at the sheriff when they finally stopped, his gaze proudly locked to a point above his head.

 

“Sheriff,” Isaacs greeted him, his voice a welcomed rumble, “We found him and his men half a day’s ride north. The evidence was all there, explosives for the railway trail and such.”

 

“Where’s the rest of ‘em?”

 

“Dead. Herblay’s a good shoot. One or two might have escaped.”

 

“ _They will come for me. They will come and you and your godforsaken city will burn in hell for all eternity for what you did_ ,” the prisoner promised in perfect French.

 

The sheriff stood up, his gaze locked onto the black rider.

 

“ _You’re not the only one with French roots in this lands, Cardinal_ ,” he answered in the same language, and, switching back to English, ordered the men who had brought the criminal before him to get the prisoner inside.

 

Oliver smashed his rifle butt in the prisoner’s stomach and the rider doubled over and slid off his mount, moaning in pain.

 

The sheriff grabbed the pitiful figure as if he weighed nothing and hauled him inside, ordering the three cowboys to take care of the gorgeous beast. Oliver and Isaacs obeyed without another word but Herblay followed him inside, his eyes wild.

 

As soon as the door clicked shut behind the prisoner he spat, “I want to see that bastard wiped out!”

 

“He will,” the sheriff answered calmly, turning to the youngster. “Believe me; we will see him hanged soon enough. But cold blooded murder will give satisfaction only to you, not to the many other people he has wronged. He’s a wanted criminal in nine states.”

 

The boy spat through the bars into the cell.

 

“He killed Adele in cold blood. He killed my _fiancée_ with a single bullet between her eyes. He deserves so much worse than just a mere _hanging_!”

 

His foot smashed against the door with wild, forceful anger.

 

“Henry. Stop it or leave. The latter would do you better.” With another hateful glare at the man crumbled together on the floor he left, not without promising to personally watch the cell’s window till the trial would have been finished.

 

“ _Adele was that blonde from Sunhill, wasn’t she_?” The prisoner’s voice was hoarse and still a little breathless from Oliver’s violent hit while he rose again, wincing. The sheriff didn’t answer but turned away instead, back to cleaning his colts.

 

“ _Oh please. You’ll hang me tomorrow or at least soon enough. I just want to hear a little more of my beautiful mother tongue before I die. Indulge a dying man’s last wish, or at least tell me your name, sheriff_.”

 

His long fingers wrapped themselves around the bars and he tilted his head to offer a hopeful smile to the sheriff.

 

“John Travis.”

 

The prisoner blinked, obviously surprised.

 

“ _What happened to your_ real _name_?” he asked, frowning.

 

“ _The people of Louisville couldn’t get it straight. I just adapted._ ” His French was a little rusty, unused for a too great amount of time. “It’s Jean Treville.”

 

“ _Jean Treville_ ,” the criminal murmured, as if tasting the name. “ _Jean Treville, Sheriff of Louisville_.” The sheriff smiled half-amused. “ _I could accept finding my end by a man of your name. Jean Treville._ ”

 

He moved away from the bars and to the back of the cell, sitting down on the cot. “ _But now’s not yet the time for this. For me. You don’t put a cardinal into a cage, my dear._ ”

 


	5. Psalm 23:4 – For You Are With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville, injured and desperate Medieval Knight who has lost all hope, and Richelieu, a poor but happy Shepherd, trying to teach him to love living again.
> 
> Because [FreyaLor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor) should know not to challenge me with Alternative Universes. It always backfires into sillyness, or: The Shepherd/Medieval Knight AU Freya didn't believe I could come up with.

He turned around, away from his flock, when he heard the dangerous, low growling of Louis. There was a lone rider coming up, his horse was limping slowly, following the barely visible path next to the stream.

He watched the rider for a minute longer, Louis still by his side, and waited for an acknowledgement of his presence. None came. The horse – a fine black beast worthy of a real chevalier, looked scruffy and unkempt – limped onwards, head held barely above the ground. It looked like pure determination was the only thing propelling it along the path.

Henry settled on his other side, his dark, intelligent eyes fixed on the incoming stranger. There was still no movement from the rider and, judging by the horse’s behaviour, he was either asleep or unconscious, maybe even dead. But then the horse would have acted differently, he thought.

“Watch the flock,” he ordered his two dogs and they obediently trotted away. Louis gave another teeth-baring growl at the rider as he went.

The horse was now only fifteen or twenty metres away. It lost its footing on one of the bigger stones, sticking out of the trampled grass, but was able to regain its balance a moment later. The man on its back swayed precariously from side to side, the beast’s ears swivelled, telling the shepherd that the horse was aware of it.

Leaving his crook on the ground, he made his way over to them, just as the horse started on its slow and painful journey again. With the casualness of a man who had dealt with animals his whole life, he took hold of the reins and stopped the advance of the black beast. Up close, he could see that there was at least one ugly and badly bandaged gash adorning the stranger’s muscular body, but his chest was still rising every now and then. He smiled and looked up at the warm sky, sending a quick prayer to thank for the life still left in this man.

The horse gave a low neigh and pressed its delicate ears close to his neck, trembling with exhaustion. The shepherd blew a gentle breath in the direction of its nostrils and offered his free hand in a gesture of peace.

“I won’t harm you, beautiful. But your master looks like he is in dire need of help and you need to rest, too. Come, let’s get your tack off.” He tugged at the reins, softly, and hesitantly, the horse followed. It was early in the afternoon and he could risk taking a short break to care for the unconscious stranger. The pasture was rich and green and, if needed, would provide his sheep with plentiful grazing for the next few days.

 

~*~

 

“Oh no, I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” said an unfamiliar voice when he tried to sit up, hissing in pain. “Not when I’ve just stitched you back together, please be so kind and try not to tear it apart with unnecessary movement.”

With another groan, Treville fell back onto the remarkably soft furs, and turned his head to look at the owner of the voice.

The man sat facing away from him, how had the man seen him try to sit up? His figure was slender and accentuated by a close-fitting shirt and vest. His head was covered in silvery curls which fell over his ears, but didn’t quite reach his shoulders.  From his position on the ground, Treville could see the blue sky of a surprisingly pleasant late autumn day behind the man. It made him realise that the stranger – his saviour, most likely – had placed himself in the entrance of the small and cosy tent the warrior had found himself.

“Who are you?” he rasped, and, after trying to clear his throat, added: “Where am I?”

The man turned around, offering him a calming smile. “I’m Armand. You’re about half a day’s travel south from the Abbaye de Valloires. How are you feeling?” In his hand he held Treville’s undergarments and a needle, both were placed on his lap as he faced his injured guest.

Treville stared at his clothing, looking bewildered, before realising he had been asked a question in return.

“Fine,” he stated cautiously, carefully touching the cleaned and evenly stitched cut in his abdomen. He flinched in pain, adding: “Could be better, I guess.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Where is Bas- where is my horse?” He tried again to sit up. This time the stranger – _Armand_ , he reminded himself – actually splayed his hand on his bare chest to press him back down into the furs.

“Calm down, it’s outside resting, as you should, too.”

Nearly fainting due to the sudden movement, he obeyed.

 

~*~

 

 “You’re too old for wandering around like that, with your dogs and sheep,” Treville remarked, a few days later. He was well enough to get up and was currently washing his black beast. “Where are your sons?”

Armand’s smile turned wistful. “I don’t have any,” he openly admitted.

“Lost in the war? Or did your wife only give you daughters?”

“No. I don’t have a wife, either. I never really had any interest in building up a family. I wanted to be as close to our heavenly Father as possible, as close to all He has built for us in His endless grace.”

“You should have joined the Church.”

“Not every family is able to pay the tuition fees for their children to become more than a monk in the service of God. As my older brother inherited my father’s business, I chose to become a shepherd instead, for what is closer to the Lord than looking after His flock, whatever form it might take? They are all God’s creation, beautiful and complete. I have found Paradise, out here, in the bushes and the trees, with the river and the sky above me.”

Treville scoffed. “God is dead. If he ever existed in the first place. Or he wouldn’t have let us down in Azincourt like this.”


	6. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anonymous prompt: _I propose you write something trevilieu with this dialogue inspiration : " Do you know what the worst part of you is?" //"What is it?" //"Me."//_
> 
> Two stories were created in response.
> 
> This is the first one. A glimpse into my Elemental Bender/Magician AU which I hope I'll be able to write one day.

The steps came closer, then faded away again. The room was dark; night had fallen while Treville had stared at the old painting taking up one full wall in the palace library.

He knew this painting intimately. He had spent hours looking at it, perhaps days, over the years.

Another set of steps passed the door, halted suddenly and came slowly closer.

They stopped not an arm’s length behind him.

“Here you are,” Richelieu said softly, as if he too, didn’t want to disrupt the silence in the library.

Treville didn’t answer.

“The King has asked for you,” the Magician continued, and made the last step to the side of the Captain. With a flick of his hand, a few of the lanterns came to life, their fire bathing the painting in orange light.

They stayed there, in silence, side by side, staring at the great artwork. A man, a spear of ice in one hand, an ornamented shield in his other that looked like it grew out of him. He was in mid-jump, a spiral of fire curled around him, and the impression of great, beautiful wings on his back showed the last strand of elemental power. His eyes were completely grey, with neither pupils nor any white visible. There was a battlefield below him, fighting hordes of horses and men, cannons and archers, benders and magicians. In the background, lightning struck the earth and the sky was full of clouds, with only a glimpse of the sun, its single beam finding its way to the warrior in the centre of the painting.

He was a true Battleborn.

The perfect image of one.

Beautiful.

“Why do you come here?” Richelieu asked, conjuring a tiny flame in one hand and playing with it, seemingly bored. Only the curious twitch of his eyes to Treville, and the hard set of his shoulders told of the tension he felt.

Treville took his time to answer. It wasn’t just a question of why he was here _now_. The master magician must know that he came here regularly, to stare at the painting, for hours and hours. Like today.

“Because he reminds me of myself.”

A frown sped over Richelieu’s forehead, disappearing like the shadows when confronted with the magician’s fire.

“He reminds you of yourself? Because you are like him? You certainly have a few similarities, but no one is even sure if this Battleborn actually existed.”

“He reminds me of myself when I feel like I am losing my connection to myself. He reminds me what a Battleborn should look like.” Treville turned his head to the Magician, his gaze caught by the tiny flame.

After struggling to find the words, to explain better what he meant, he finally asked: “Do you know what the worst part of you is?” His eyes followed the dance of the light.

“What is it?” Richelieu sounded mildly curious, as if he thought it was a rhetorical question, that Treville would use to explain something about himself.

“Me.”

This time, the frown stayed. Richelieu’s gaze searched for Treville’s, but he kept his stubbornly on the flame. Richelieu closed his fist, stifling his little toy, and waited until their eyes met.

“You consider yourself to be a part of me?”

“You made me a part of you when you decided to let me live, despite what I am, despite what you stand for.”

“And you think that makes you dangerous enough to be _my_ worst part? You have heard of me, haven’t you?” The mockery in Richelieu’s voice was palpable.

Treville snapped around, and his eyes glazed over for a second. The ground trembled under their feet and the dark hiss of wind flapped the red and blue robes, tangling them together. The air suddenly tasted like rain, and a ripple of fire spiralled down around Richelieu, only to die when it touched the floor.

“You have _no idea_ what you are dealing with, Magician. When I tell you that I am your worst part, I am _serious_. I am Battleborn. There is a reason why they hunt us down wherever a Catholic regiment holds the majority of the power. Why even some Protestant regimes _sell_ us to the Spanish Inquisition.”

“But you have your powers under control. You don’t go on the rampage when you unlock your full range.” Richelieu’s eyes were wide, even if he was trying hard to reign his emotions in.

“I don’t break under their spell because I approach them differently,” Treville said quietly, shoulders dropping. His gaze wandered back to the man in the painting.

“But I don’t know if I will be able to do so every time. As long as I am at court, I am a threat to everyone here. I appreciate you standing up for me. I am as loyal to the king as any subject could hope to be, but unlike magic, bending isn’t about _control_. It’s a _dance_. A dance with _fire_. And as your control can snap, so can I stumble in my dance. And when I do, not even _you_ will be able to stop me.”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“Some days, I am afraid of myself. Then I come here, and try to find peace. Some days, I wish you had let them kill me, like they wanted to. It would have made your life easier. It would have made the Court a safer place.”

“As long as you are here, the Court _is_ safe. You demonstrated that when you blew your cover to save our king. If you had died because of this –”

“I would have died in the service of my king, fulfilling the oath I gave at my inauguration. I would have died _gladly_.”

“– because of this, neither the King nor your regiment would have ever forgiven me. France needs the Benders. They are what makes the difference between the Habsburgs and us. Without you, they are little more than worthless. You are Battleborn, but even when you’re in full Battleborn mode, you have never tried to harm anyone even remotely connected to the Good of France. And I don’t believe you will do so, in the future.”

“I certainly don’t want to,” Treville softly agreed.

“And sometimes, that’s enough.”

The smile Richelieu gave him was honest, and full of warmth.


	7. In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anonymous prompt: _I propose you write something trevilieu with this dialogue inspiration : " Do you know what the worst part of you is?" //"What is it?" //"Me."//_
> 
> Two stories were created in response.
> 
> This is the second one. A scene out of my [Casablanca-Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/932634), because the prompter also mentioned how they had liked that particular AU. Set in Paris, after the first fig incident but before the de Medici incident.

The gramophone had long fallen silent. The night wasn’t over, but dawn wasn’t too far away, either. Moonlight fell through the window, bathing the room in a silver shimmer.

Treville looked back to the bed and carefully put on his trousers. Richelieu slept, undisrupted in his slumber by Treville. Most of his back was exposed to the moonlight, his skin soft and unmarked, so unlike his own. The curls, silver now even where they were brown in daylight, formed a halo around his face.

He looked so young when worry was not carving lines into his noble features.

Innocent.

Peaceful.

Treville stepped closer, pulled the blanket up to protect the Cardinal from the cold he felt creeping up. Richelieu stirred, his eyes slowly blinking open.

“You have to leave already?” he murmured, voice heavy with sleep.

“I do. Don’t worry, I was able to sleep a little.”

Richelieu looked pleased by that, pulled the blanket a little higher and closed his eyes again.

What a privilege Treville owned. How much trust this simple gesture showed. If anyone could see them now, they wouldn’t believe their eyes.

No one could see them like this. No one should. No one should be able to even indicate that there might be more between the First Minister of France and the Captain of the Personal Guard of the King.

The danger they would find themselves in if anyone, ever, found out.

“Do you know what the worst part of you is?” Treville asked, quiet enough that Richelieu would miss it if he had fallen back asleep. He didn’t expect an answer.

“What is it?” he said with a sleepy murmur.

“Me,” Treville answered simply, leaning against the doorframe, fully clothed.

Richelieu didn’t stir, or look back, but a smile spread over his face.

“You’re being silly.”

“I’m being serious,” Treville objected.

The Cardinal opened his eyes and looked at his lover from under long lashes.

“You’re a far better person than I ever will be. Why do you think you’re the worst part of me?” Richelieu’s gaze was sharp, even if he looked tired. How he was able to keep his thoughts under control, even when waking out of his slumber, was a mystery to the Captain. But then, he could fight and move without thinking seconds after waking, which Richelieu couldn’t hope to do even in his dreams.

“Because I make you vulnerable. You treat life like chess; you want to have everything under control, imagine fifty different possible courses at the same time in great detail, think about everything, always. I am a threat to the stability you’re trying to build. If someone finds out, or even suspects and exposes us, everything you’ve accomplished will come crumbling down around you.”

Treville ruffled his hair with one hand, trying to suppress the tremble in his fingers. He hated it when he was like this: thoughtful, worried, _stopping_.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he added, when Richelieu didn’t speak.

“I spend my whole life being afraid,” the Cardinal finally answered. “And it’s silly of you to assume I haven’t calculated everything I could imagine happening with you, with _us_ even before I agreed to this relationship. I trust you. I won’t deny that you’re a risk to everything I stand and work for, but you’re a risk _worth taking_. And now come back to bed. You have at least another hour before you have to leave. And I’m feeling cold.”


End file.
